


Say That You Love Me

by EinahSirro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Being Hunted, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Fisting, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!Sherlock, escaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: John has been Sherlock's captive for nearly a year, and an ominous new idea of Sherlock's convinces John that another escape attempt, however disastrous, might be his best option.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelblack3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Training Dr. John Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/462671) by [angelblack3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3). 



> I haven't asked if this is okay, so I hope it is. I don't really know the protocol for this sort of thing. But that 2012 fic Training Dr. John Watson has straight up haunted me for 5 years. I wrote this as a stand-alone meant to fit in somewhere between Dark Days and A Nice Night Out.
> 
> It won't make much sense if you haven't read Training Dr. John Watson first, but I bet most of you have, and like me, are aching for another fix. I finally made my own fix, because it's been on my mind for so long. I hope angelblack3 is still around, and sees it, and likes it!

John had a feeling that tonight was going to be rather a bad night. He could just tell. You couldn’t be the captive of a psychopath and not tell. You might be sitting in a cozy flat in an enviable neighborhood. There might be a fire in the fireplace. There might be streetlights coming on outside the windows, and the windows might be dressed with perfectly respectable curtains. Indeed, your whole flat might have a very civilized air, with its mildly eccentric Victorian wallpaper, and the shelves lined with books, and the worktop littered with teacups, and there are pillows on the sofa, and there’s a rug on the floor, and there are framed photos on the mantelpiece over the fire, and any innocent visitor would never think—

 _God help any innocent visitor that wandered into this flat,_ John thought, his hands clutching the edges of his paperback novel. Long since stopped reading it. He hadn’t turned a page in 5 minutes and who would know? The monster sitting in the chair opposite would know, that’s who would know.

Sherlock was like a coldly amused statue, a figure arrested in mid-reaction, watching John. They were in their chairs. The fire flickered. It was a perfectly decent evening settling outside, and John had flicked on a lamp not 10 minutes ago, and sank into his chair, thinking that perhaps tonight would be “a good night.” That’s what a man in his position called it when his captor—partner (Sherlock would say) – seemed in a mild mood. Nothing on his phone had stirred him. Nothing untoward was happening in his world. No bizarre stories on the news. No restless urge stirring him to torment his pet, until… until apparently there was.

After nearly a year of captivity, it was the little things that John had learned to dread. When Sherlock stopped flicking through God-knows-what on his phone and lifted his eyes to rest them on John. And then held them there for a moment. And then the moment stretched long, and longer still.

And when John, plodding through his spy novel, had a sudden tingling feeling that the air had grown still, he looked up and saw the pale, still thing with pale, still eyes that focused on him like a cold blue laser… 

John never wanted to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that the message had been received, and the dread had begun to build. Not John. There was still enough of the soldier left in him that he’d direct his eyes back down with a sudden dogged concentration to stare at the book in his hands. Sherlock would watch in silent delight as John gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the pages of his novel. _You can’t read a word,_ he’d gloat internally, as he bored holes in John’s neck and face with his eyes.

This was part of the game: Sherlock staring at John, who pretended to be oblivious, and John staring at his novel, which had gone blank before his eyes. 

The evening darkened. 

John turned a page, his stomach heavy with incoming dread. After a moment, Sherlock lowered his phone and laid it delicately on the arm of his chair. He raised his hands to put his fingers deliberately together, and rest them under his chin. His pale eyes remained on John. 

John continued to pretend to be oblivious. But a spot between his shoulder blades had begun to heat up. Sherlock was clearly contemplating some new “activity” for the evening’s entertainment. Something that would horrify John on the emotional level, something that would play on his nerves, batter his self-control, wrack his brain as it desperately tried to hold on to… what it was he was trying to hold on to, John never could say. It was just instinct to hold on to… something. 

But in the end, whatever his mind and heart and spirit were doing, his primal urges would respond with wanton abandon, and he’d end up wrung out and satisfied… and disgusted with himself and Sherlock both. Disgusted with himself for having ever gotten into this situation, and being unable to discover a way out. Disgusted with Sherlock for his sanguine assumption that whatever outrage or torment he’d just inflicted upon his unwilling partner, the orgasm he’d forced out of John was his payment for damages done. And when John lay limp and panting, his brain too foggy to hold on to the sense of outrage, could he muster any argument that would convince Sherlock otherwise? _No,_ was the short answer. _No he couldn’t._

“Did you clean yourself out, John?” Sherlock asked finally. He’d laid out the enema bag wordlessly on the counter of the bathroom sink at about 3pm, knowing exactly when John would enter the bathroom and see the silent command.

“Of course,” John said, trying for a tone that was light, dry, bitter, polite, frosty, and ironic, all in two syllables. He was still staring at his novel, but his head tipped the way it did when his spine and neck had tensed up, and his teeth wanted to clench, but he was fighting it. Sherlock waited, diverted, to see if John would look up first, or turn the page. He was going to do one of them in the next 10 seconds, because Sherlock’s lack of response (and steady stare) was stripping John’s nerves bare, and some sort of restless movement was forthcoming.

At the 8 second mark, John heaved a sigh, closed the book, put it aside, and tipped his head in the opposite direction to return Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Finished pretending to be uninterested?” Sherlock murmured, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

“Oh, I’m always interested,” John rejoined sarcastically. “Nothing interests me more than knowing what the man who holds my life in his hands is planning for our next adventure.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened still more, and his lips curved into an… almost breathless smile. “The man who holds your life in his hands,” he mused in a wondering tone. “How… apt. Especially tonight.”

John’s stomach did a mild dip. Not roller coaster level alarm, not yet. More a “lift going down quickly” sort of drop. Then the urge to grab the bull by the horns came over him, as it so often did. Probably one of the attributes that most delighted Sherlock was how reliably John decided that if punishment was coming, he’d rather be hanged for a lion as for a lamb.

“Is tonight the night, then?” He asked unconcernedly, though his entire body was growing as tense as his neck. “I don’t have to worry about retirement anymore?”

“I’m flattered that you want to die in my arms, John, but I wasn’t planning to fulfill that particular fantasy tonight,” Sherlock responded, and his head tipped back to watch John’s mind whir about like a rat in a maze.


	2. TWO

John sat for a moment longer, waiting for Sherlock to make a move or issue a directive, but the man simply sat in his chair, dressed in black, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. _At least he was handsome,_ John’s inner voice said in a weary tone. Whatever little battle John was mounting was lost before it started.

Abruptly, John got to his feet. “Well, in that case, might as well get started, hm? You must have everything in order, just waiting for me, right?” John stared him down and then reached out a hand as if to help Sherlock out of his chair. “Let’s get to it then.”

Approval fairly oozed from Sherlock as he accepted the hand and let John pull him from the chair firmly. John loosened his grip to release Sherlock’s hand, but the other man held tight, and they strolled through the kitchen to the bedroom hand in hand, very much like the lovers Sherlock wished they were. Not at all like the desperate captive eager to get through whatever it was so that he could gather the scattered bits of his composure and pride back together, and escape into the sweet oblivion of sleep, at least for a few hours.

When they got into the darkened bedroom, John turned to face the taller man in the dim light from the street, but Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on their clasped hands. He lifted them and brought his other hand up to cradle John’s. “How very different they look,” he commented, lifting his eyes to gaze at John from under his long lashes. John’s own gaze flicked over their hands with nervous speed, becoming increasingly uneasy that whatever Sherlock had planned, hands had something to do with it.

Sherlock released him but held up his hand, and brought John’s by the wrist to flatten their hands together. “Palm to palm is holy palmers kiss,” Sherlock quoted lazily, and John noted how much larger and bonier Sherlock’s hand was than his own. By the unholy little smile curving the pink lips, his captor was satisfied that John had taken note.

Then Sherlock dropped his hand. “Do turn the light on, John. I don’t want to attempt this in the dark. It isn’t the sort of activity one does carelessly.” His voice dropped to a purr on that last bit.

Obediently, John turned the light on, and did his best to keep his demeanor light and pleasant, as if he refused to be frightened. “So I don’t suppose it’s the sort of activity one does with their clothes on,” he said boldly, and began undressing.

“What a good sport you are, John. It’s wonderful how you’ve adapted,” Sherlock said mockingly, and shrugged off his own jacket, turning away to unbutton his shirt and divest himself of his perfectly tailored second skin. When John was naked and Sherlock was, unsurprisingly, in comfortable pajama bottoms but shirtless, John noticed an alteration to the bed. The corner restraints that so often awaited him had been replaced by a single chain in the top center of the bed. The chain disappeared down between the mattress and headboard, probably hooked to the frame beneath. At the business end were two leather cuffs. Whatever event Sherlock had planned for tonight, having John’s arms spread out in the usual manner was no part of it.

John stared down for a moment and felt the blood begin to travel to his nether regions. One of the more shameful truths he’d been forced to face in the last year was that the very sight of restraints made the mechanisms in his head shift to a lower gear. 

“I want you to be able to turn over and back at will tonight, John. But we must make sure that your hands don’t get in the way of mine,” Sherlock said at his side. “Down you go now,” he added, with a gentle push on John’s back.

There was always that moment that John hesitated, knowing that once the restraints were on, he was utterly at the other man’s meager mercy. Always that moment he rebelled, in his heart, even if arousal was pooling in his stomach. It mixed with the anxiety in his chest and paralyzed him for a moment.

Behind him, Sherlock spoke quietly, but with warning steel entering his voice, “Whenever you make me wait, I wonder if you’re teasing me. Challenging me to greater heights to prove my mastery over you.”

Swallowing, John lowered himself to the bed and lay on his left side, his back to Sherlock, his hands up obediently by the cuffs. He felt the bed dip as Sherlock knelt behind him on the mattress. “Hands in the cuffs now, John, don’t be lazy and force me to do everything for you.”


	3. THREE

John wondered if the shame of his lack of resistance would ever completely fade. It was a deadening weight on his chest that momentarily distracted him from his distrust and fear of Sherlock, and focused him completely on his disgust with himself. But most of the fight had been pressed out of him in the box, and what little remained was leeched out in the following months. Not all at once, but a bit here, with a good whipping, and a bit there, with an endless night of nerve burning drugs and torturous restraints. When Sherlock decided to teach a lesson, he was very thorough. 

John silently slid his hands into the cuffs, and watched despairingly as Sherlock’s nimble fingers tightened them to fit his wrists, and fastened the buckles firmly. Now his hands were up by his face, and he could have buried his face in those hands if he wanted to, but he was more intent upon watching Sherlock. The other man leaned over him to reach the bedside table on the far side, and with his (unfairly) long, well-shaped arm, pulled open the drawer, and plucked out a single latex glove. 

John’s eyes widened immediately, and of course, Sherlock noticed. “My, my, John. What big eyes you have. I had no idea they could stretch so wide. What a hopeful sign,” he breathed, and pulled the latex glove onto his right hand with a snap. Then he tugged the ends high up on his arm

John swallowed. “Sherlock,” he said tremulously, “that’s dangerous, that’s… the human body isn’t meant to… Jesus, at least tell me you’ve Googled prolapsed anus!”

“But of course,” Sherlock assured him, reaching over him again to pump lube from the gallon dispenser onto his gloved hand, slicking it well up. “I’ve looked into it most carefully. You notice I didn’t allow you any fruit at dinner, either. Only foods that digest slowly, and don’t cause gas. Really, you’d think I damaged you permanently every time we play our little games.” Sherlock paused and looked down at John with the satisfied affection of a man in complete control of the situation. “I’m very mindful of your safety, John. As you once said, I don’t like to play with broken toys.”

With that, Sherlock reclined gracefully behind John, leaning on his elbow casually. His other hand slid between John’s buttocks and began delicately stroking the quivering flesh therein. With practiced ease, he slid the long fingers up and down the warm fold, from John’s hole to just behind his balls and back up again. John bit his lips, feeling himself slicked up and stroked patiently in this his most sensitive region. Sherlock pressed in a bit as he stroked up and down, up and down, watching with intent, searing eyes as John’s erection bobbed up almost immediately.

“Oh, you are eager tonight,” Sherlock commented, his fingers tickling and teasing John’s opening as his captive tried not to squirm too wantonly. After a moment, Sherlock stopped his teasing strokes, and John felt him lean away to pick up something from the end table on his own side of the bed. Sherlock sat up to slide the cock ring onto John’s straining erection with the hand that did not have the glove on.

“We don’t want lube on your cock, John, because once my fist is inside you, I’ll be sucking on it.” Sherlock informed him, eyes icy hot. John made a guttural noise, but managed to squelch it quickly. Sherlock smiled. “You’ll be more vocal soon, I promise you.”

John didn’t doubt it, but it was his policy to remain silent as long as possible. It was the only form of defiance permitted him… permitted mostly because it amused Sherlock to see him break down and lose the capacity for even that symbolic rebellion.

Silence fell as Sherlock resumed his delicate, but insistent probing and stroking. For fully a minute – though it felt much longer – he didn’t enter John at all, but merely fingered the puckered flesh. He stroked upward over it again and again with such yielding softness, it felt very much like a tongue lapping at him. John squeezed his thighs together helplessly, wishing he could manage some pressure on his cock, but it jutted into the air alone and sensitized, the pressure building from the cock ring, and he heard Sherlock give a faint chuckle.

“Until I know you’re enjoying yourself, John, I hate to go any further,” He said with exaggerated politeness… while he tickled John’s hole until John was actually moving his hips as if trying to press himself onto those long, taunting fingers. John buried his face in the pillow, biting down harder on his lips. He wanted more, God yes, he wanted more. But he didn’t want as much as Sherlock was planning. His heart beat harder with fear at the very thought. 

The stroking and tickling continued, and John felt a thin film of sweat breaking out on his back. Without conscious thought, his right leg drew up higher, allowing Sherlock greater access. The tormenting stroking continued, and Sherlock leaned down to put his lush lips to John’s flushed ear. “Let’s hear a little encouragement, John. Would you like a finger inside you?”

John released a throaty whimper involuntarily, and Sherlock smirked in triumph. “Very well, then.” He pushed a slick finger inside and began working it vigorously. John groaned into the pillow, and Sherlock took it as an invitation to work his second finger in. There was an unaccustomed rhythm developing, John’s feverish mind noted. Sherlock was thrusting in with more force than usual, but withdrawing very slowly and carefully, almost letting the pressure of John’s body push his fingers out. But then, the re-entry was firm and aggressive.

Pleasure tingled down John’s legs as Sherlock worked in his third finger, and gradually built up again to this hard, demanding entrance, followed by the gentle withdrawal. In hard… out slowly. In hard, a firm, thrusting shove that sent chills up his spine… and out gradually. In again, full and stretching, hard and unyielding… John was panting with debased rapture, and Sherlock kept up the slow pace for another minute. Now his moans escaped him without much effort, as Sherlock’s fingers fucked him hard from behind. He didn’t need to see the pale eyes, their riveted gaze, the parted lips… John knew what Sherlock looked like when he was utterly dominating him.

Sherlock carefully withdrew his fingers for a moment and reached for more lube. “Now let’s see what you’re capable of, John,” he whispered, and brought his hand back to John’s buttocks, forcing them apart insistently. John felt the fingers enter and knew that all four were in play now. He was stretched wide, wider than Sherlock’s cock – which had plundered him so many times. Wide like the massive black dildo that occasionally made an appearance when Sherlock wanted John arse up and trembling while the leather strap slapped down just below the smooth protruding thickness, until a burning red stripe decorated his cheeks, sometimes for days afterward.

That was the width he was feeling now, as Sherlock formed his fingers into a closed lotus bud, thumb tucked in there too, and pushed slowly into his sweating captive. John’s mouth opened wider as he felt the ring of muscle stretched to the point of pain. 

“Ungh, Sherlock, stop,” he begged, uncaring of dignity now that he could feel the pressure of Sherlock’s big, bony knuckles trying to breech his resisting flesh. His heart was truly pounding now. His body was panicking, trapped between pleasure and pain. To his relief, Sherlock eased his fingers back out, and then moved over John’s legs to position himself in front of John, his face looming gloatingly over John’s hungry erection.

Placing his ungloved hand on John’s hip, bracingly, Sherlock finally began to pay attention to John’s turgid cock. When those warm lips closed over the head and pushed down, the relief that swept over John left him nearly sobbing. The warm, velvet wetness of Sherlock’s mouth lavished his hot, swollen flesh, and for a moment, the encroaching fingers made no move as Sherlock sucked lovingly on John’s eager cock. John moved his hips restlessly, wanting deeper suction, wanting the cock ring off, wanting to come.

Sherlock pulled off with a suckling pop and smiled. “Need you to turn over, John,” he breathed, and John turned onto his right side without a thought other than to return to the sanctuary of Sherlock’s large, warm mouth. Sherlock turned with him, keeping his lips where John wanted them, and now John was now well positioned for the right arm that Sherlock thrust between his thighs, and the return of the large, slick lotus bud that once again demanded entrance.


	4. FOUR

Sherlock was determined, now, and his fingers pressed expertly into John up to the knuckle once more. John’s panting had become vocalized in a frightened, stuttering _ah-ah-ah_ as he felt himself stretch to his previous limit. His protests grew louder, but Sherlock closed his lips over John’s bobbing cock again, and immediately John’s incoherent cries dropped an octave. A bare millimeter at a time Sherlock pressed in, his knuckles slowly forcing John wider, and wider still. With each tiny fraction gained, his mouth sank deeper onto John’s cock, and the corresponding pleasure and pain made him feel as if the entire cradle of his pelvis was being invaded and devoured by Sherlock. 

“Mmnnmmnnng…” John uttered, his brow furrowed and his teeth clenched as the pressure between his buttocks increased. He felt compelled to shift his hips as if accommodating the hand that pushed up into him. Squirming, John pulled down at the restraints on his wrists, but they were solid, and only burned the skin. Down below, Sherlock’s knuckles were easing themselves into him, and the feeling was … shocking. Burning, yet centering somehow. As if all of John was melting and squirming and stretching to allow this… because it was painful, yes, but… the pain was delicious. John was positively writhing now, confused by this riveting, stunning sensation. His hips felt as though they were spreading. His arse was now merely a frame for this huge, pushing entity that was splitting him in half.

Suddenly, John felt the hard, bony knuckles push past the tight gate and enter him, and the sensation was terrifying and satisfying and euphoric and degrading all at the same time. His legs spasmed beyond his control, and his hips turned and twisted, unsure if they wanted to escape this horrifying invasion, or impale themselves on it in a final surrender. Sherlock took the choice from him, pushing further in, and John’s throat was as wide open as his bottom, emitting a roar of confused pleasure and pain, and not a little shock.

Now, Sherlock slid the cock ring off. “Beg,” he recommended, eyes alight, his mouth hovering over John’s erection. 

“Please, Sherlock, please, please,” John panted, barely audible, as Sherlock gave his cock one teasing lick. “Oh, God… Sherlock, please, ah—“

Sherlock tipped his head thoughtfully. “You never tell me how wonderful I am, John,” he said lightly, and pushed his fist a tiny bit higher into his captive. John jerked as if he’d received an electrical shock and groaned, sweating and trembling with the force of the sensations zinging through him.

“Tell me I’m wonderful, John,” Sherlock sucked briefly on the purple head just by his mouth, and looked up at John, who was digging the side of his head into the pillow.

“Hate you—“ John muttered, and Sherlock grinned. Ah, John. Defiant to the last.

“I think you love me,” Sherlock corrected him, and pushed in deeper. John threw his head back and opened his mouth in a soundless scream. “Don’t you?” Sherlock added, jiggling his arm a bit and watching in aroused amusement as John writhed in reaction. “Say it,” Sherlock added challengingly. This would be rather a lark, wringing such a declaration from John.

John shook his head adamantly. His eyes were pinched shut and his hair was as mussed as short hair could be. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Suddenly he had a new goal. Make John say, “I love you.”

“Say it,” he demanded, refusing to touch John’s cock again. But he made the mistake of pushing in just another millimeter with his fist, and John convulsed, his entire body seizing up and gripping down on the hand inside him, and his orgasm went supernova. 

Sherlock was temporarily diverted at the feel of John’s body clamping down on his wrist, and watched the extended gyrations of the man as he was wracked by waves of pleasure and pain. Obligingly, he shoved his fist in a little deeper, and John let out such a deep, prolonged moan that Sherlock reached down to take himself in his one free hand and gave himself a few hard jerks, climaxing almost immediately. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he was rather displeased with himself for missing even a split second of John’s agonizing ecstasy. But, he thought, regulating his breathing and beginning to carefully work his fist out of his wrung out lover, he could certainly do it again some time.


	5. FIVE

John must have blacked out, because when his eyes blinked open a few moments later, Sherlock was returning from the loo, drying his hands on a towel, and came to stand staring down at the bed where John lay in confused, satiated exhaustion. His wrists were still bound.

“Say that you love me,” Sherlock instructed.

John swallowed, wanting his heart rate to return to normal. He tightened his pelvic muscles up, afraid that his nether regions were permanently altered, but it all seemed to pull back up and in as normal. His breathing refused to slow down.

“John,” Sherlock said in a warning tone. He was still standing by the bed, waiting.

John turned his head and gave a rebellious glance up at the half-naked man looming over him. Graceful, beautiful, monstrous. “I have one thing left to give of my own free will, Sherlock, and I’m not giving it to you,” he finally managed.

Sherlock lifted his brows. The towel dangled loosely in his hands as his eyes flicked over his naked prisoner. “Well,” he said at last. “It seems you have a Safeword now.”

He returned to the loo and left John lying, still bound, to think that over. It wasn’t a comfortable thought. Sherlock phrased it like a compromise, but what it really meant was, _Soon, very soon, I will torture you till you say it._

John’s stomach sank. When Sherlock got a notion in his head, there was no dislodging it. For just a moment, John contemplated an extravagant declaration of adoration to appease Sherlock’s ego, and spare himself God only knew what. But his throat closed up at the very thought of saying “I love you” to the man who’d turned him into… well, a sex slave. 

John lay chewing on his lower lip. His post-orgasmic haze was dissolving into low-grade panic. If he knew Sherlock, John had about 18 hours to avert a horror show. That, or brace himself to bear whatever a psychopathic genius could dream up. John closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock with sounding probes and an electrical current, both together. His legs twitched with terror at the very thought.

It had been a long time since John had attempted an escape. Might just be time to try it again.


	6. SIX

The GPS chip behind his shoulder blade was the biggest issue. John had spent many an hour going round in his head, how to get it out. He couldn’t reach it himself, and getting help from anyone else, be it doctor, veterinarian, or well, he couldn’t imagine anyone else with the skill, but—Sherlock would find out who had helped him, and murder that person in cold blood. John had no doubt of that. He’d seen it happen before, in their earlier days.

His ruminations usually failed him at that. But now, laying awake at 3am as Sherlock slept beside him, John was spurred by a new fear (and anger) that Sherlock actually had the gall to wring a declaration of love from him by painful means. John returned mentally to the problem of the chip.

It occurred to him briefly that if he could get Sherlock’s phone… but he dismissed that. Sherlock would have back up phones and laptops already tracking the microchip. 

His only escape would be if… an idea occurred to John that was shocking in its simplicity. What if Sherlock BELIEVED the chip had been removed? Even if it hadn’t. He’d stop trying to track John via GPS if he thought it was useless. John lay for a moment, blinking rapidly in the dark. Yes. Well, maybe. 

Easing from the bed, John crept to the door and then paused, turning back to stare at the shadow still in the bed. Sherlock slept on, undisturbed. Or he appeared to. John was certain Sherlock was perfectly capable of feigning sleep, but after a long moment, John decided that he seemed to be asleep, and that was as much assurance as he could ask for.

Barely breathing, John slipped from the bedroom and padded naked to the darkened kitchen, relying on the streetlight outside for what illumination he could. Once there, he – as silently as possible – worked open one of their junk drawers, the one where the most abandoned adapters and technological detritus had gathered. He hesitated, and then opened the refrigerator door, both for light, and for cover. If Sherlock woke and came out to investigate, he’d find John poking about in the fridge as if for a late-night snack.

Picking quietly through the drawer, John found a microchip that looked very much like the one in his shoulder. It was still in the packaging. Might be the new one Sherlock was intending to have installed… soon. John gave an uneasy look toward the blackness of the hall behind the fridge, and listened, but heard no stirring from the bedroom. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and shoulders as he contemplated the enormity of what he was planning. An escape attempt now, after nearly a year of “trust” (as Sherlock called it) would enrage his jailer. If John were recaptured, his punishment would be something of a permanent nature. Crippling, possibly. 

But his mind replayed the look in Sherlock’s pale eyes when he said, “it seems you have a Safeword now.” _God, God…_ John prayed. It was going to get ugly no matter what. Even if he said what Sherlock wanted, the next goal would be to make him mean it. Somehow.

He eased the drawer closed and went to the closet, slipping the microchip into the wallet in his jacket pocket. Then he went to the loo and fetched a razor, and a large band-aid, and secreted that into his jacket pocket as well. Finally, he returned to the fridge. He had an almost superstitious fear that Sherlock was lying awake, listening to his every move. If he went and rummaged around in the kitchen at 3am, apparently looking for something to eat, he’d better by God find something to eat.

Making less effort to be stealthy now, John unwrapped the bread and popped two pieces into the toaster. Just in case.

When he had forced himself to eat the toast (and to his surprise, it actually calmed him down a touch) John returned to bed. Sherlock stirred slightly as John crawled back between the covers. Then the taller man rolled over and pulled John to him sleepily. He put his lips to John’s ear and said in a low, gravely, sleep-roughened voice, “Whatever you’re planning to do, I advise you to think again.”

John’s entire body went cold and rigid. Sherlock breathed deep of the scent wafting off John’s short, mussed hair. “You’re lying several centimeters further from me than usual. Closer to the edge of the bed. I think you’re contemplating running, and—“ Sherlock paused and ran one large hand across John’s chest and then up to wrap loosely, but warningly, around his throat. “—you really should not even entertain such thoughts.”

John opened his mouth to reply, although he had no reply ready, but Sherlock didn’t seem to need an answer. He pulled himself over on top of his captive, pinning him down to the bedding, and relaxed again, warm and heavy. For a moment, John relaxed too, unable to deny the comfort of the hot, stabilizing pressure of Sherlock’s body on his. And the smell of his neck, and hair. Faint touch of cologne. Not all of the associations were unpleasant. Sherlock nuzzled his ear delicately, and then burrowed his face into the pillow and sank back into sleep.

After a moment, however, John’s uneasiness returned. Like a ticking clock deep in his stomach, he could feel it there. He spent most of the rest of the night imagining the ways Sherlock might try to force a declaration from him. Then he imagined, if he did say the words, Sherlock coolly looking down at his sweating, weeping prey—and John had no doubt he’d be reduced to that—and saying, “Now John, that wasn’t convincing at all,” before applying another wave of current to the tip of a sound protruding from John’s caged, defenseless cock. He could almost feel the rawness of his throat after screaming himself hoarse; a feeling he’d like to say he was unfamiliar with.

Toward dawn, John finally fell into exhausted sleep.


	7. SEVEN

When he woke, of course, Sherlock was already up and in the kitchen, sipping tea and staring intently at his laptop. 

John tried to allay suspicion, and stick to his usual routine. He drowsily made himself tea, and stared into the refrigerator, and stacked the few dishes in the sink while the toast browned.

When he was seated with his toast, John said, “We’re out of jam. I just used the last of it.”

“I suppose you want to go to the store and get more,” Sherlock said calmly, eyes never leaving his screen.

John put his elbows on the table. “I don’t see why some of your henchmen couldn’t do it,” he said grumpily. “It’s not that hard to pick out the right jam, and there’s nothing else we need.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s face without moving his head. John stared back as boldly and flatly as he could. “Leaving the front door unguarded?” Sherlock queried lightly. “That would be unwise, as some simple-minded fellow could accidentally wander off without proper supervision.”

“Well, I wouldn’t send such a simple-minded fellow to the store alone either.” John retorted immediately. 

Sherlock stared at him for another beat, and then returned his eyes to his laptop. “If you want to go to the store, go to the store,” he said finally, apparently reading something rather fascinating on the screen. “By the way, since you’re a doctor, perhaps you can tell me exactly how long a man can go without oxygen before brain damage sets in.”

Chills swept over John. “Depends on the man,” he said as unconcernedly as he could.

“I believe struggling cuts the time,” Sherlock suggested, his tone thoughtful.

John couldn’t pretend to be calm anymore, and sat in his chair breathing, and feeling how wonderful it was to breathe, and how much he really didn’t want to be deprived of it. Across from him, Sherlock seemed to be texting someone on his phone. Then he laid it down on the table. John took several more deep breaths.

“Let’s have a little competition, shall we?” Sherlock suggested suddenly, eyes wide and interested. John’s heart thudded unpleasantly. “I’m going to take a shower while you run to the store. By the time I’m dressed and ready to go out, if you’re back with the jam, I’ll give you a reward.” Sherlock beamed at him for a moment. “And if you are not back with jam by the time I’m ready…” his eyes flicked down to the screen for a second, and then back to John, “You’ll give me one.”

John gaped at him from his chair. Sherlock rose, eyebrows lifted challengingly. “Best get dressed, John. The clock is already running.” With that, he swept by John to enter the loo.

Immediately breaking a sweat, John threw himself out of his chair, sprinted to the bedroom, and yanked his clothes on over his pajamas. Then, on impulse, he pulled another button down shirt on over the blue one he already had on. Then a third, a white and burgundy checked one that was rather eye-catching. Without hesitating, he turned and made for the closet where his jacket hung. He heard the water turn on in the shower as he flew out the door and pattered down the steps to fling himself out the front door.

His appearance did not seem to startle the henchmen, as he called him, who routinely loitered in a parked car near the door of 221B in case Sherlock was ever in need of assistance in subduing, say, a recalcitrant lover. They looked as if they’d expected to see him come dashing out in a panic and head toward the Tesco. John didn’t look back to see if they were watching him round the corner, and he didn’t bother to see if they saw him suddenly change direction and head for the nearest Tube station. 

Because whether they saw him or not, at this point, was immaterial. The GPS on Sherlock’s phone could track that chip easily. John plunged into the underground and leapt on the first train that pulled up. He deliberately made no plan, and let his mind go blank. Because Sherlock seemed almost able to read his mind, and John was hoping that Sherlock couldn’t predict what John would do if even John did not know what John would do. But in his pocket, tucked in his slim wallet (Sherlock allowed him one piece of ID and some cash for running errands) were the chip, the razor blade, and the band-aid.

He hadn’t been ready. Sherlock had goaded him into running a full four hours before he’d meant to, and as John’s breathing slowed to near its normal rate, he became certain it was intentional. Life as the toy of a brilliant mad man was a constant game of chess, and John always lost. But he wasn’t allowed to not play. So he played. He was playing now, in fact.


	8. EIGHT

Sherlock tugged his jacket on and gave his curls one more appraising glance in the mirror before striding into the kitchen to check the GPS on his phone. Yes, John was riding the Tube all over London, first in one panicked direction, and then in the other. Sherlock was amused to see an almost perfect 5 pointed star marked as his frenzied path. Such a linear thinker was John. He almost wondered how the man had burrowed such a place in the otherwise frozen tundra of his heart. Smirking, Sherlock briefly imagined John as some intense little animal that lived naturally in tundra. Perhaps an arctic ground squirrel, they were feisty little creatures, he was sure.

He monitored John’s progress for some hours, and was intrigued when John finally returned to nearby Regent’s Park, and seemed to come to an exhausted halt near the Open Air Theatre. Sherlock put the phone aside and resumed his work on the Brazilian network for a while (upstart cartel competition needed squashing—boring, really, once he’d figured out who the ring leaders were. Humanity rarely surprised Sherlock Holmes.) After some 15 minutes, he checked his phone to find that John had not moved from Regent’s Park. 

Had he run off his madness? Was he simply ginning up his courage to return home and face the music? Sherlock rather hoped so. It had been nearly a year since the last time he’d had to hunt John, and though it was rather good sport, he’d be even more pleased to find that John had become too thoroughly conditioned to truly try again.

Perhaps, Sherlock mused… perhaps if John returned of his own accord, he should reward him with pleasure and forgiveness. It wouldn’t be at all what the man was expecting. Perhaps it would break down that last barrier John kept up, night and day, grimly, doggedly, through all the months of their intimacy… Sherlock took a moment to research studies on the efficacy of unexpected reward on prisoners, captives, slaves, and other detainees. Yes. Might do.

He glanced back at the phone to see where, now that John was rested, he had decided upon. Home? Or some desperate bid for sanctuary? He smiled at the thought of John frantically trying to hide under the bones of St Bride’s crypt.

But Sherlock was rather disconcerted to see that according to the GPS, John had not budged in nearly half an hour. Suddenly, an internal alarm went off inside of Sherlock’s chest. Something was afoot. He rose gracefully, snatched up the phone, and slipped into his flowing black coat. His eyes narrowed as he wrapped the blue scarf about his neck. Could it be that John could still surprise him?

Sherlock stepped into the street and summoned the car with a wave of one long, gloved hand. In the other hand, his phone reassured him that John had not budged. It was late afternoon and growing very cool. A quick survey of John’s closet before leaving had showed him that three shirts were missing, so clearly John had put a bit of thought into his flight, even in his haste. Sherlock settled into the back seat and directed the driver toward Regent Park.

Soon, Sherlock, accompanied by two well-paid gentlemen of the thick-necked variety, were moving in the cloudy, late afternoon’s greyish light toward the trees and bushes that surrounded the Open Air Theatre. Sherlock zoomed in on the signal that the GPS indicated, and glanced around the park. It was sparsely populated at this time of year. Darkness came early, and there was a breeze. No events scheduled for this Tuesday evening.

Turning, Sherlock’s eyes swept the park, looking for a familiar figure sitting hunched on a bench with his face in his hands, perhaps. Nothing. He checked his phone one more time… yes, John should be within 50 meters of him. Putting the mobile in his pocket, Sherlock bent his full attention to scanning for John. For several long fruitless moments he turned, and found to his consternation that a vaguely unsettled feeling was taking root in his tundra.

Suddenly his eyes sharpened. In the waste bin near a line of trees, just visible, one arm of John’s white and burgundy checkered shirt (a favorite of Sherlock’s) was dangling over the edge of the plastic-lined rim. Immediately, Sherlock was moving toward it in long strides. His henchmen, sensing the purpose of his movements, drew closer. 

Sherlock reached the bin and leaned over it. There, wadded and bloodstained, was John’s shirt. He reached in and drew it out carefully, unfolding it to find a blood stained razorblade, the wrappings of a bandaid, and… the smudged microchip. 

For a moment, a wave of actual dizziness swept through him. Sherlock drew his breath in and straightened, turning to scan furious, icy eyes in all directions. How much of a head start had John gotten?? And who… who had helped him? Because anyone who helped him must be wrung until every drop of information had been extracted, and then dispatched in the most ruthless way possible. Sherlock dropped the shirt into the bin and turned to march in rage to the car… but then he stopped.

Turning back, he returned to the bin and gently retrieved the shirt. There would be clues as to who had helped John remove that chip. Fingerprints. DNA. He wrapped the shirt around the razor and the chip and fled the park. 

In the back of the car Sherlock brooded over the fabric in his hands. Not that much blood, actually. Small incision. Perhaps someone with skill… perhaps that was the reason for the directionless, time wasting path… waiting till an accomplice could meet him… yes, undoubtedly…

When he returned to the emptiness of Baker Street, Sherlock’s chest was burning with rejection and chagrin, and his eyes were hot with the promise of retribution.


	9. NINE

From the leafy depths of the tree, John stared down with bated breath as Sherlock stormed over, gathered up the shirt, discovered the bloody microchip, and stiffened in shock. Clutching the branches, John willed his body not to tremble in the cool air, and his breath to slip as silently as possible from his lungs. His jacket was bundled and tucked underneath the plastic liner of the bin below him, as being too light a tan and too visible in the greenery of the park. Up in his hiding place in the tree, John was dressed in dark jeans and a dark green shirt over the blue one. Two shirts and a vest were not sufficient to provide warmth in this crisp weather, but anything was better than being spotted.

Now he cursed himself for putting the jacket in the same damn bin as his shirt. What if Sherlock investigated further? The shirt was meant to be discovered. The jacket was not. But John had been in such a hurry, unsure of how long Sherlock would wait to descend upon him. Not knowing how much time he had, John planted the evidence, hid the jacket, and clambered up the tree (which, incidentally, was much more difficult than he’d anticipated. Took him several tries.) Then he found himself shivering and waiting for nearly half an hour.

In fact, he was a little affronted at how tardy Sherlock was in coming to claim his prize. John had imagined Sherlock chasing him through the underground, waiting with a cold, triumphant smile at every Tube station, whirling around corners with that jacket flaring out, only a few moments behind him at any given time.

That his captor had come so tardily to recapture him was a bit insulting. It suggested over-confidence. But, John thought suddenly, perhaps that was a positive development.

His heart soared with hope as Sherlock dropped the shirt back into the bin and headed toward his car, clearly in the grip of a murderous rage. But his heart sank again in horror when Sherlock returned, gathered up the shirt with the chip, and took it with him.

John fretted, up in his tree. He’d expected Sherlock to leave the chip in the bin and storm off. Had he done thus, John had only to remain in the park for a few more hours. If Sherlock checked the GPS out of habit, or sentiment, or merely to ruminate on his failure, it would suggest that the chip was still in the bin, there in the park.

But he was taking the bloody thing back to 221B with him! Therefore, any glance at his phone would show that while the chip was heading for Baker Street, the signal was still in Regent’s Park. Cursing, John waited till the car pulled away and then scrambled down the tree with shaking hands to retrieve his coat. This meant he’d better stay as close to Sherlock as possible until he could imagine that Sherlock had truly ceased to monitor the chip on his mobile. He sprinted through the park and prayed that Sherlock would not look at his mobile again until John was hunched in the back corner of Speedy’s, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to the window.


	10. TEN

The next six hours, for Sherlock, were puzzling. His inspection of the shirt indicated that the blood had dried enough to suggest about an hour from the introduction of the blood till the moment he’d found it in the bin. This meant that the chip had been removed 15 minutes before John had arrived at Regent’s Park. Why then carry the chip and the shirt to the Park?

He checked back at the pattern on his mobile to see roughly where John had been 15 minutes before arriving at the Park. Then he dispatched messages to his homeless network to find when, and where, and who could have possibly removed the chip and sent a bloody, bandaged man back onto the Tube clutching his shirt…

Perhaps John had kept the chip with him to help mask the identity of whoever had aided him? Sherlock sat back in his leather chair by the fireplace. Yes… yes, that fit John’s moral profile. He would be anxious not to see another Angelo die in a hail of bullets. Grimly, Sherlock brooded that Angelo had been lucky compared to the sorry chap who dared to help John Watson. He’d put the word out nearly a year ago: _John Watson. Mine. Do not interfere._

He stared at the mobile again, and morosely regarded the pulsing signal from the chip, now at Baker Street. Where John should be. After a moment, Sherlock disabled the signal and put the phone down again. Who had helped John remove the chip?

Gradually, he became aware that night had fallen and there was no fire in the fireplace. Because John usually did … Sherlock launched himself restlessly from the chair and returned to the microscope at the kitchen table. Search for fingerprints. Who helped John remove that chip?? Oh, someone was going to pay, and pay. Die paying.

 

*** 

 

Downstairs, John finished his second cup of coffee. His hands were shaking, but his head felt so light and clear, it was as if he’d lived underwater for a year, and now he was above the surface, breathing air again. He had no idea at what point it would be safe to move about the city again. No idea at what point Sherlock would cease to look at the GPS signal on his mobile and begin searching for John by other means. 

Some things had to be done by chance, by whim, trusting in luck, John felt. So he simply decided that he would stay in Speedy’s till it closed at 11pm. Then he would don the hat and coat he’d swapped his own for from the homeless chap several blocks away-- John had looked for the cleanest beggar he could find-- and calmly walk out of Speedy’s, down the sidewalk, and go in search of the nearest homeless shelter he could find. And in the morning (if morning came and he was still free) he would set about contacting the bank where his pension was deposited and begin the process of re-acquiring access to his funds. 

After that, he’d… well, he wasn’t sure yet. John admitted to himself that he dared not plan too far ahead. For now, he would drink this damn coffee and wait till the diner closed. And hope. But not hope too much. 

 

*** 

 

By early morning, Sherlock had ascertained that there were no identifiable fingerprints on the razorblade or the chip except for John’s. Whoever had aided him must have worn gloves, which would be proper and procedural for a medical professional. 

Perhaps they’d even put a few stitches in his shoulder blade. Then John had gathered up the chip, the shirt…and the razor?… and the wrapper of the band-aid?

Sherlock stilled. That was a bit much, taking the razor and wrapper with him. Perhaps the band-aid was a back up and he’d bled through the first one. Possible. And the razor, he might have feared it…? Would implicate his accomplice? But disposing of something so small would be simple. But the band-aid…

He visualized John in the park, replacing his band-aid, shirtless. How? How would he reach it? And in full view of passers-by? No, no, even if he managed it, he’d do it in the privacy of the restroom, and that would be where the wrapper would be disposed of. 

And why keep the razor? Or, why keep it till it was time to dispose of the chip? And why dispose of the shirt? Why not wash the blood out of it in the sink… John had only 3 shirts with him, why sacrifice one?

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and stared off into the middle distance beyond the cabinetry of his kitchen. There was something very odd about that bundle: shirt, chip, razor, wrapper. He shook his head slowly. Something very odd about it.


	11. ELEVEN

John awoke in the morning with a start. He was curled up, fully dressed, arms wrapped around himself protectively. He glanced around, taking stock of his situation. He was lying on a bare mattress in the homeless shelter, surrounded by other snoring fellows in apparel that ranged from designer wear to rags. John sniffed and blinked himself into full alertness. Not really that early … 7ish? Quiet, though. Concrete walls, barred windows. Barracks like. Bulletin board littered with notices about help programs, and phone numbers, and such like. 

Florescent lights shone overhead, but he was in a bottom bunk and the worst of it was blocked by the top bunk. Listening to the discontented sounds around him, John surmised that someone had just turned on the lights, marking the end of the evening and the signal for the inhabitants to turn out and hit the streets. Shelters had specific hours, he’d found.

John clambered from the bed and shuffled into the restroom to try and sort himself. He wanted to look presentable, whatever his situation.

 

*** 

By 10am, after a sleepless night of sending messages, studying the razor and shirt, and staring at his mental map of London, Sherlock had finally turned to brooding over the microchip itself. This fortunate chip had been implanted in John’s flesh for months. His invisible leash. Sherlock’s security against panicked flight. His badge of ownership. Sherlock brought it to his nose, eyes closed, to inhale the scent of John’s muscle and skin and blood. 

To his consternation, he detected only the faint whiff of factory produced plastic. Sherlock opened his eyes to stare in affront at the chip. It had the gall to look perfectly unused. He tipped his head and stared at the chip more intently. Perfectly unused.

Suddenly, he rose to go hunt through the drawer for the new chip he’d planned to have implanted in John next month. It was nowhere to be found. Sherlock straightened in awe. He’d been meant to find that shirt. Slowly, his lips parted in wonder. John… John had tricked him. Him, Sherlock Holmes! A smile spread across his lips, and it wasn’t a very nice smile, but it was a smile. _John Watson,_ he thought, _you little imp._

Oh, this was-- “Clever, John,” he actually breathed. And then his mind went into overdrive, playing out his options.

He was tempted to give John a few days of freedom just as a reward for having been … almost worthy, as an opponent. Really, if he had not added the razor and band-aid wrapper for Sherlock to find, who knew how long Sherlock would have puzzled over it. It was overkill, and now Sherlock was rather embarrassed that it took him 20 hours to realize: the razor and wrapper were pure theatre, meant to make it absolutely clear that the chip had been cut out—he interrupted himself. Pure theatre. The Open Air Theatre was where—

“Oh, ho, John, John,” he chanted aloud, and turned to pace through the flat excitedly. Surely that was an unintentional element, that John would place such props in such a place. Sherlock paused to breathe in his delight. Dear John. He shook his head.

Then he pounced on his mobile and re-activated the GPS. His heart thawed in relief to see the signal moving slowly up a street in the direction of King’s Cross.

Sherlock breathed deep. His eyes fastened on the pulsing signal, and warmth flooded through him as he contemplated its progress. His muscles relaxed, and only then did he realize how stiff they had been. Truly, he was a mess without his defiant little soldier. “John,” he murmured to the screen of his mobile, “When I get you back, I will weave such a web for you, you’ll never leave my side again.”

Then he was across the room and into his coat, texting his henchmen. Time to bring his lover back home.

***

John exited the bank, his new ATM card warm in his wallet. He was feeling the first cautious rays of hope. Nothing built up one’s savings account, it seemed, like being the prisoner of a mad man who took your card, and rarely let you leave the flat. John was looking into the window of an appliances store, contemplating the possibility of relocating to Scotland, when a familiar car passed behind him slowly, and his body reacted with a sudden surge of blood pressure almost before his mind registered its reflection in the plate glass window before him.

It was a miracle that the car didn’t come to an abrupt halt, but John was wearing a different coat, and a ball cap, and by purest chance had come to a halt next to a woman walking a dog. They were standing close enough to look like a couple, and Sherlock hadn’t noticed him. He was looking for John-in-tan-coat, alone. His heart rate accelerating quickly, John knew instinctively that a second lucky pass would not happen.

Taking care not to betray any frantic movements, John stepped into the store, tugged his hat further down over his face, and turned to watch the car troll along the sidewalk. After a moment, it came to a smooth stop, and a tall, slim figure in a long black coat stepped out. John felt the blood roar in his ears. Was this dumb luck on Sherlock’s part? Or an uncanny knowledge of John’s plans? Or… John’s heart sank to see Sherlock consult his mobile with searching eyes and then glance around him again, like an eagle scanning for prey.

John understood immediately that his microchip plan had bought him one day of freedom, and no more.


	12. TWELVE

Moving back from the plate glass window, John considered his options. There were only three, really: give up now, run until caught, or… John never considered himself suicidal, but sometimes… it was more exhaustion and despair than true depression. Would he want to die if Sherlock simply set him free? No, of course not. This thought was purely situational. Would he think about it if Sherlock even treated him… just a bit less brutally? Terrorized him less thoroughly? Probably not. 

But there was no point in consulting his “if” list. Sherlock tended to accelerate. Like a cancer, he seemed to need new material to devour, and having broken John enough to ensure compliance, the man was now apparently hungry for willing participation. John couldn’t provide that without fundamentally changing his mindset and… essentially losing who he was. _Everyone dies,_ whispered a tempting voice in his head. _But not everyone has to lose their soul first._

John turned and made his way to the back of the store. He had not decided between options 2 and 3 yet, but he certainly wasn’t ready for option 1. He searched the back wall until he found an EXIT sign over steel double doors, and pushed through them. Cutting through the cluttered holding area and out the back, John expected any moment to be confronted by store employees telling that he “couldn’t be back ‘ere, mate,” but apparently he’d chosen a good moment, because he found his way through and out the back to the loading bay without seeing more than the back of a cover-all clad figure pushing a stack of boxes on a hand-truck.

John looked around frantically for a moment and then noticed an open semi-truck with several large drop cloths piled in it. The truck was otherwise empty. In a moment of wild desperation, John glanced around, and jumped into the container. He hopped over the cloths, lay down and tugged one over him. For once in his life, John was grateful to be on the small side.

He lay under the dusty cloth for a moment, trying not to breathe too deeply, and listened as the voices came near.

“Aye, Ali done deah?”  
“Man, ‘e been done!”  
“Arite den. Las’ one!”

And then there was a rumbling, and the container grew dark as they pulled the door closed and locked it. John had never been so glad to be locked in a dark container, alone. He pushed the cloth off his face and waited for a few more moments. To his soaring joy, the truck started up with a roar, and he felt himself pulling away from the shopping center.

He had bought himself another hour free of pain and fear. Every hour left was precious.

 

Sherlock prowled the sidewalk, eyes flicking from one anonymous nobody to the next. That one was a shoplifter, this one was spying on his girlfriend, these two were planning a vacation… but no John. He glanced down to his mobile and came to a halt. The GSP signal showed John moving away and… apparently on a major thoroughfare. Sherlock stared… John was moving too rapidly to be on foot. He turned with a flaring sweep of his coat and motioned the henchmen back to the car. The game was on!

Sherlock found to his surprise that he was actually smiling. This was really quite diverting! He sat back in the car and, when not directing the driver, found himself replaying one of their last erotic sessions in his mind.

It was astonishing, Sherlock found, how often he found himself more interested in John’s orgasm than his own. And he certainly applied himself to learning John’s limits – and teaching John a thing or two about the flexibility of those limits. For instance, pleasure tended to make pain more bearable; this was not a new concept. And muscles and tendons were often more elastic than the mind that registered their complaints. Any dancer knew that the body learned to accommodate the demands placed upon it, if the demands were placed gradually, but inexorably.

Not long ago, Sherlock had decided upon an experiment with flexibility. He’d tied John spread-eagled (always a favorite) but to John’s consternation, his ankle cuffs were not secured to the foot of the bed, but to long chains going up to the head of the bed, around the posts, and back down to the foot. So when Sherlock pulled the chains tight, John’s legs were spread far wider than usual. Sherlock wrapped the chains around the footboard corner posts, and then hooked the catch at the end of each chain to a link further up the chain. Such a simple set up. So easy to tighten; just pull the chain down, watch the leg be tugged further outward and upward, and hook the clasp on a higher link.

It was always enjoyable to watch John’s initial attempts at stoicism. He was usually determinedly silent at the onset of their play. Sherlock, clad in comfortable silk bottoms, sat cross-legged between John’s splayed thighs, and lubed his hands up calmly before beginning to stroke and tease John’s very exposed cock and balls. John was half-hard before they even began; he usually was. Heart pounding, eyes fixed on the ceiling, throat occasionally moving in a swallow, John lay ignoring the man who stroked his hardening length.

Sherlock smiled, knowing full well it was difficult to ignore. He knew exactly how John liked it; tight, medium pace, long strokes, a twist at the head. He used both hands, fondling and rolling John’s scrotum, being just a bit rough—but not too much, with the fully distended member in his expert hands.

John always gave a little sound of exasperated despair when the cock ring was slipped on. But he should know Sherlock’s philosophy by now: why take a few brief moments when you can make it last 25 agonizing minutes? Sherlock’s smile grew to a grin as John began moving his hips involuntarily, trying to thrust into the hands that fondled him. 

After a long moment of ardent, aggressive stroking, Sherlock paused, dried his hands briefly, and tightened the chains hooked to John’s ankles, spreading his legs just a few inches wider. His captive made a few angry, protesting noises in his throat, but they fell back into groans of pleasure when Sherlock resumed stroking and caressing his glistening hardness again. Beautiful, how utterly helpless and exposed he was. With one hand, Sherlock explored firmly the tender skin under the balls, and with the other, jerked John’s cock with increasing speed and pressure.

“Ah, God, Sherlock—“ John finally broke enough to utter. It sounded very much like a plea for mercy. If it weren’t for the cock ring, he’d have come 5 minutes ago. He was staring higher on the ceiling now, almost craning his neck and rolling his eyes back to see the wall behind him.

Sherlock paused and tightened the chains further. John’s legs were stretched wider than was comfortable, but the taunting, slick, pleasuring hands between them resumed their ministrations, and John let out a throaty groan and arched his back. He was spread too tight to squirm now, and could only thrash his head about as Sherlock’s fingers grew more aggressive and sensuously cruel—

Sherlock snapped out of his memory to see that they had pulled up to a warehouse near the docks. Of course. It’s always a warehouse. Twitching the coat over his groin to hide the evidence of his wandering thoughts, Sherlock exited the vehicle and strode toward the warehouse doors, checking his mobile as he came. Then he looked up.

To his amusement, about a dozen of the workers seemed to be gathered at the open bay door of the warehouse, looking in and up at something that had caught their attention. Something far above the storage bins stacked high with recently imported goods. Something up in the lofty beams beneath the ceiling a good 60 meters above the hard cement floor.

Sherlock’s amusement vanished when he realized that the focus of their attention was a rather small, compact but erect figure in a blue jacket and ball cap, who stood balanced on a solid beam traversing the overhead, just under a skylight. His left hand rested lightly on a joist running perpendicular, and his feet were positioned near a support column, but… it was John, and his perch was precarious. Above him was the vaulted, corrugated tin ceiling. Below him was 60 meters of air and a concrete floor. He was staring down at Sherlock, face impassive.

Sherlock lowered his mobile slowly, his eyes flitting from the boxes piled on the storage frames nearest John, to the forklift below, to the truss girders running parallel to his lover’s perch. This was a very unstable situation. This was… bad.


	13. THIRTEEN

Sherlock entered the warehouse slowly, and turned when what looked like a foreman approached. “Oi, you can’t just come in ‘ere—izzat yer mate up there? Get ‘im down and get outta ‘ere!” The man barked. Sherlock stared him up and down for a second, turned to his phone, and sent a text.

“Are you listenin’ t me ya poncy bastard? Get this—“ Suddenly, another employee stepped up and whispered in the fellow’s ear. He listened, paled, and took several steps back. “Oh, say, I didn’t know oo ye were,” he began.

“Close the bay doors and clear the area,” Sherlock directed, glancing around at the workers who were still gathered and gawping up at John. His eyes settled on one fellow, a slim youth with the smooth face of teenager, and large, dark eyes. “You,” he said, and gestured. The young man stepped forward unsuspectingly, his eyes going from Sherlock and his two thick-necked henchmen to his supervisor, who’d taken a deep breath.

“Everyone out but us and—“ Sherlock looked at the young man inquiringly.

“Hassim?” The boy said, in that rising intonation the entire younger generation had, as if he wasn’t sure of his own name, but really meant, of course, “Why do you ask?”

“Hassim, you’re going to help me get my friend down,” Sherlock explained coolly. Then he waved his arm at the rest. “Out,” he directed abruptly.

“Say, guv, that’s the manager’s nephew, I…” the supervisor managed.

Sherlock stared him down. “Sometimes we must make choices in life,” he said cryptically. Hassim stiffened as if he suddenly understood his well-being was in danger.

With a jerk of his head, Sherlock directed one of the henchmen to take Hassim in a headlock. The young man let out a gasp, and his hands came up to grip the other man’s thick arm, but he did not otherwise react, seeming uncertain that this was really happening.

The other workers seemed more eager now to vacate the area, and as the doors rumbled closed, they left Hassim to his fate with little more than look of wincing relief that it was not them.

Sherlock switched his phone to his left hand and held out his right hand to henchman number 2, who—face expressionless—pulled a Walther P99 from inside his jacket and placed it in Sherlock’s grasp. Hassim’s eyes grew huge and he let out a little bark of shock as the handgun rose to point at his head. His hands tightened to pull at the arm around his throat, but of course, this was useless.

“John!” Sherlock now called up to the silent figure balanced on the beam, watching this development with a sort of grim blankness.

Sherlock took a few steps forward, until he was in a clear spot, away from the pallets and stacks of goods that littered the warehouse floor. From here, he and John eyed each other.

“John, if you don’t come down, I’ll have to splatter this poor boy’s brains all over the wall,” Sherlock called up, eyes riveted on his partner.

Hassim let out another inarticulate cry, his feet dancing around in panic. The henchman tightened his grip on him.

In answer, John reached into his pocket, withdrew his phone, and Sherlock lifted his own mobile to his ear. “You’re right, John, there’s no need to shout, is there? Modern technology is at our fingertips,” he said lightly.

“If you shoot him, I’m coming down the fast way.” John said calmly.

Sherlock eyed John, turned to glance over Hassim, and back up to John again. “I don’t think you’d commit suicide over a complete stranger, John—“ he began. But John let go of his steadying grasp on the joist and pulled the ball cap from his head. Then he let it fall wordlessly.

Sherlock watched the hat fall down, down, down… it really was a long way down. It was very, very unlikely that John (or anyone) would survive a drop from the rafters. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was far less flippant. He swallowed.

“John, please do take hold of the joist again.”

John placed his hand on the joist again and stared down at Sherlock. “Let the kid go, Sherlock,” he said, voice firm. 

Still, Sherlock hesitated. “You won’t jump,” he predicted.

“I don’t have to jump. I just have to let go, take a few steps out on the beam, and close my eyes. I’ll lose my balance. Even if I change my mind, well… won’t matter much at that point, will it?” His demeanor became less firm, more… weary. Matter of fact. “It will be beyond my control at that point.”

Sherlock hesitated, really not wanting to relinquish the one thing he felt John would respond to: an innocent victim. “And if I do not?” He asked.

John released the phone, and stared at Sherlock, who stared at the mobile on its downward trajectory. It fell much faster than the ball cap did, and smashed on the floor with shattering explosion that sent tiny bits of plastic flying in all directions. Even the henchman holding Hassim lifted his eyebrows in appreciation.

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a rather nervous little smile. “You do know how to make a statement, John,” he breathed, although now, of course, John could not hear him. Sherlock pocketed his now useless mobile and looked up at John appraisingly. John let go of the joist and stood balanced on the beam, holding on to nothing.

Sherlock’s stomach did some strange shift inside him, and suddenly it was oddly difficult to breath. He lowered the gun and with a jerk of his head, communicated to henchman number one that Hassim was free to go. The boy skittered out of sight to some unseen exit, hair practically on end. Sherlock placed the gun on the floor. Then he turned back to John, hands up in supplication. “He’s free, John.” 

To his immense relief, John reached out and took hold of the joist again, swaying slightly.

And now they were back where they were, and Sherlock had no card left to play, unless… his eyes ran along the length of the beam, and back to John.

“We need to talk, John,” he called up. John looked around the warehouse slowly, almost absently, as if lost in some distant memory, or looking over ancient ruins. It gave Sherlock a very uneasy feeling. “I’m coming up, John,” he said, and went to the storage bins closest to the beam on which John was balanced.

“No,” he heard John say, and immediately the smaller man let go of the joist again and looked as if he were going to attempt to cross the beam to the other side of the warehouse.

Sherlock fell back in horror. That beam stretched over nothing, and there was nothing to grasp for long stretches between girders. “No, John, no, no… stop,” he shouted, “I’m stopping, I won’t—“ Sherlock backed away rapidly, and John stared down at him meaningfully.

Sherlock paced beneath him, frustrated as a cat who cannot reach the bird it craves.

Then he looked at the climbing possibilities on the other side of the bay center, at the far end of the beam. He pointed. “John, I’ll come up that side. I just need to … I need to be up there with you. Not too close,” he bargained alertly, as John considered the distance.

Receiving no answer, Sherlock decided that amounted to tacit consent, went to the far side, and began climbing. John stood on the beam, held the joist, bit his lip… and watched as the dark figure scaled the storage bins like a vampire crawling up the side of a castle wall. Not at all an inappropriate image, he decided bleakly, and his hands began to sweat when Sherlock was finally at the top, pulling himself up, pausing to dust off his hands, and then moving carefully up into the rafters.

Now the two men faced each other, high up beneath the ceiling of the warehouse, alone together in a world of metal beams that came together in triangular fractals that seemed to recede on all sides. Sherlock came to stand on the same beam, at the far end, and—like John—reached out to steady himself on the nearest joist. John felt the faintest vibration of Sherlock’s foot stepping onto the beam his own feet rested on. 

John looked down, wondering if he could descend faster than Sherlock, but the two henchmen waited for him down there, staring up, and he knew they’d do anything rather than risk Sherlock’s rage by letting him escape.

He was down to options one and three, it seemed. Unless he could convince Sherlock to set him free, it was surrender… or fall.


	14. FOURTEEN

“Well, John,” Sherlock did not have to shout now, only to raise his voice somewhat to carry across the divide. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

John couldn’t think of an immediate reply, and didn’t try. There was a certain resolve growing in him, that perhaps he did indeed have the courage to take his ending into his own hands. He didn’t want to. He could imagine a future for himself, one without Sherlock. But if it wasn’t an option… 

“I could have died in Afghanistan,” John said aloud, more to himself than Sherlock, but by the brief narrowing of the silver eyes that regarded him from the other side of their metal web, it was clear that his remark was audible. “Perhaps I was supposed to,” he mused, following his own train of thought. “and I didn’t, and these last few years have just been extra.” 

“John,” Sherlock interposed, but seemed for the first time in their entire acquaintance, uncertain what to say next.

“So if I die now, here, today… I still got more time than I was supposed to. Maybe that’s the way I should look at it.”

By the slow inhale, he could see that Sherlock now understood the direction his thoughts were taking.

“Come now, John. Suicide to escape a relationship?” Sherlock said, with an attempt at lightheartedness. But his eyes were moving around John, and the beams and girders, clearly calculating. If he let go of the joist nearest him and began walking toward John, he’d need to take ten steps with no support whatsoever to reach the next joist. And then another ten steps to the next. And then ten final ones to John, who had nowhere to go but backward, which would place him more safely over the storage bins only short distance below him. He could still be injured in a fall, depending on how he fell and what he landed on, but it wasn’t the plunge to the death that awaited anyone who fell in the center that stretched out between the two sections.

“A relationship, is that what you call it?” John called, focusing on Sherlock again. His hand gripped on the joist sweatily as a wave of anger came over him. “A relationship has give and take, Sherlock,” John informed him curtly.

“Yes, well, you give and I take,” Sherlock said mockingly, testing the grip of his shoes on the beam. They were a little on the smooth side, which was not ideal. But his balance had always been superior.

John was eyeing him hotly. “Very funny,” he said, and seemed about to launch into a serious rant, when Sherlock decided to take the plunge (or more hopefully, not.) Spreading his arms wide, Sherlock released the joist, steadied himself, and began to walk across the beam toward John. His only goal was to get to the next joist, and given that it was a mere 10 steps, he felt it was… quite do-able.

When Sherlock began his trek, anything John had been thinking about vanished, and he clutched the joist in panic, watching the taller man in those terribly shiny, smooth looking shoes balancing on the narrow beam as he stepped out over the vast emptiness below him. His mouth open, John drew in his breath to cry out against the risk Sherlock was taking, but found himself afraid to make a sound lest he distract the man and send him plummeting to his death.

When Sherlock had almost reached the first joist, John saw him wobble a bit. Coldness washed over him and he wasn’t aware of the panicked little noises that escaped his throat, only that when Sherlock finally reached the joist and took hold, John nearly sank to his knees in relief.

“Jesus, Sherlock!!” He nearly screamed, once he could breathe again.

Sherlock gazed at John, much closer now. “Would you have been upset if I had fallen, John?” He called out.

John was too busy blinking at the space over his head and pulling in lungfuls of air to respond for a moment.

“If I fall, I suppose you would be free,” Sherlock suggested, glancing down to the concrete far below, and then back up again with burning eyes. 

John stared back at him wordlessly.

“Perhaps when I take the next section—“

“No, Sherlock, don’t! Just stop!” John brandished his palm.

“—You might just try to jiggle the beam a bit,” Sherlock suggested helpfully, his face aglow with an unholy light. “Wasn’t there a story about that? A boy who jiggles a branch his friend is standing on, in a moment of resentment, and his friend falls to his death?”

“Yes, _A Separate Peace_ , very good, Sherlock, now just… just STOP a minute. Just…. God, how are you going to— you have to let me think!” John stuttered.

Sherlock stepped as far forward as he could without letting go of his support. “You think too much, John. That’s the problem.” And John could tell by the way Sherlock’s eyes assessed the length of the beam that he was going to try the second stretch.

“Please, Sherlock, please, just wait. Just wait. Please, please wait,” John babbled, and Sherlock tipped his head to inspect him closely.

“Ask yourself how you feel at this moment, John,” he called. “Why are you so afraid? It’s not your life I’m risking. In fact, I’m risking nothing that you value, according to you.”

“Don’t,” John said seriously. He couldn’t have said why he was reacting this way. He should hope the bastard fell. But all he could feel was the terror of seeing the man who had been his whole world for nearly a year—whether he’d wanted it that way or no—dangling his beauty, his intellect, his style, his grace, his witty evil terrifying self over a yawning abyss that would swallow him up in a second.

John imagined Sherlock sprawled dead on the floor below and nearly gagged.

“I almost think you care,” Sherlock said with a predatory smile, and then spread his arms and began walking along the next section.

John nearly sobbed, clutching the joist with both hands now, and holding perfectly still. His lips moved—although he wasn’t aware of it—mouthing “no, no, no, no” but without a sound.

Half way across, Sherlock began to wobble. John let out a high moan and crouched, unable to do anything to help. Sherlock’s arms moved in circles for a moment, and then he steadied himself, and made it to the next joist in a flush of triumph.

“Oh my God,” John muttered, his face pressed to the metal beam he held.

“John,” Sherlock said, close enough to speak in a normal voice.

“Go to hell, you fucking wanker,” John managed in a quaver, not looking at him.

Sherlock’s smile was one of pure, savage satisfaction. John certainly loved him. Didn’t know it. Didn’t want to know it. Wouldn’t admit it. But certainly, he had tied that stout heart to his own, and now needed only to claim it. 

He waited for John to compose himself, and eventually, his soldier pulled himself together, straightened up and stood, assessing Sherlock’s position. He had one last length to cross, and then he and John would be together again.

“Just, wait a minute,” John insisted, and looked around for something long… a pole or something… something he could hold out that Sherlock could take hold of, and John could guide him or steady him as he crossed the last bit of the divide.

After a moment, John located what looked like a stick with a small hook that he supposed the workers used to pull at items behind their reach. It was about six feet long, and somewhat thicker than a broom handle. John climbed down into a bin for it, and then pulled himself back up onto the beam, somewhat awkwardly, clutching the pole. Sherlock leaned against the joist nearest him, pulling his black leather gloves back on.

“Is that for me to grab hold of, or for you to push me off with, John?” Sherlock asked.

John gave him a haunted look. “It would serve you bloody right,” he told him, taking his position and moving his hands down to the end of the stick.

Sherlock eyed him until John quit inching about on the beam, finding the spot furthest out that did not place him over the abyss as well. Finally, when John was ready, he grabbed the joist with his free hand, and gazed back at his tormentor. “What?” He snapped, nerves clearly wearing through their last bit of protective coating.

Sherlock tipped his head back and gave John his most intense stare. “Let’s have a little wager, John. A gentleman’s agreement, if you will.”

“NO.” Snapped John. “You aren’t a gentleman and I don’t feel very agreeable. You grab the Goddamned pole and you—what the fuck, Sherlock, really? Why the hell can’t you just—“ John seemed to run out of bluster, although clearly more wanted to bubble up.

Sherlock waited till John had once again gotten himself under control. John, biting his lip again, subsided into a frustrated simmer.

“Here is my proposal,” Sherlock said, lips parting in his own version of heightened emotion. “If I cross this last section successfully, you come into my arms. You put yours around me, you put your head on my shoulder. You admit that you… are… mine.”

John inhaled through his nose, eyes still on Sherlock.

“You come home with me and resume your rightful place as the focus of all my amorous impulses, including those you occasionally object to. And you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will risk absolutely anything to keep you.” Sherlock finished, eyes still riveted on John.

John looked at him for a moment. “You know you can do it,” he accused.

“I can unless you take that pole and—“ 

John was already shaking his head. “You know your henchmen down there—“

“—will not get paid a penny if I’m dead,” Sherlock said. “In fact,” he pulled out his phone and made a quick call. One of the henchmen, both of whom had been watching this drama in awed silence, took the call.

“Wait outside,” Sherlock said, and disconnected. Then he slipped the mobile back into his pocket.

John watched them exit, looking back over their shoulders in some consternation.

“No witnesses,” Sherlock said invitingly. “You can leave my body lying on the floor and slip out the back.”

“Stop this,” John whispered brokenly. “Just stop. Don’t make me choose between your life and my own.”

“Those aren’t the choices, John,” Sherlock said, and then without further ado, spread his arms and began the final steps. 

John, startled into action, put the pole under his arm and directed the end out to Sherlock, who stepped carefully to it, grasped it… and stopped, four steps from safety, looking at John expectantly.

It took John a moment to understand he was being given one last chance to jerk the pole left or right, throwing Sherlock off balance, and then simply letting physics take their course. He ground his teeth together, hating Sherlock Holmes with all of his heart. He was rubbing it in, that John couldn’t bring himself to make one simple move to guarantee his own safety and freedom.

John was trembling with emotion, and with the effort of holding perfectly still. Finally he roared, “Come on!!”

With a small, cool smile of triumph, Sherlock crossed the final steps and reached John, putting one hand on the joist beside them, and wrapping the other around his prize.

John dropped the pole and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, allowing the taller man to provide the security for both of them, and buried his face in the other man’s collarbone.

“I fucking hate you,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. “I know,” he purred into John’s short, mussed blond hair. He held the other man tight for a moment, and then reached into his pocket for his mobile. He made a quick call—

“Have the car ready,” he said to his lackey. “We’re going home.”

—and then replaced the mobile and resumed holding John. His John. _I'm not even going to punish you,_ he thought gloatingly. _Well, not too harshly._


End file.
